


right here on top of the world

by cersc



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Body Worship, Dirty Talk, Drabble, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Forbidden Love, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Purple Prose, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Semicolon abuse, Sibling Incest, Smut, Southern Gothic, Twincest, Twins, Woman on Top, beautiful golden fools, worship kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-03-30 19:56:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13958853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cersc/pseuds/cersc
Summary: Jaime lives in a constant state of awe where his sister is concerned. Cersei knows which religious experiences mean nothing and which mean something.(both of these little morsels were written at 4:30 am. the document is titled "semicolon abuse and southern gothic" on my computer. i listened to a lot of hozier whilst writing each of these. i feel like those three facts tell you all you need to know about this piece tbh. i don't know what time period this is in, i don't know exactly where it takes place - it's just some nice sexy fluffy smutty twincest with weird religious themes set in some vague gothic-feeling southern us area. i hope you enjoy it!)





	1. there is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin

She was always golden, but never more so than in the afternoons, with liquid southern sun pouring over her hair, warming her soft skin. Gold and ivory she was, as precious as the paintings their father had shipped from Europe and hung in the foyer, the statues carved to guard the gates of the manor. A piece of art somehow more precious than anything found in even the most prestigious museums, because she _lived,_  she laughed and raged and bled and loved with the fury of hellfire and the blessings of heaven.

And on afternoons like this one, when she comes to him barefoot in the soft meadow and brought him through the fields, the forest, to the section of river Father owns; when her hair tumbles over her shoulders as if she’d just awoken, when her body is covered by a white cotton dress with seams straining slightly over her breasts and hips, with flower petals and blades of grass stuck to its ruffled hem, oh, he can almost believe she _came_  from heaven, a gift crafted by God and given only to him.

Not that she belongs, truly, to anyone but herself — and Lord help the man who thinks he could teach her otherwise.

Under cover of weeping willows and hickory trees, light dappled through the summer-green leaves, with the river’s rushing enough to cover her voice lest any eavesdroppers linger nearby, she takes his hands and places them upon the curves of her hips, presses her form flush to his, tells him he is the other half of her soul, of her body. She feels his heart hammering fast and steady under his ribcage and smiles — only she has this heavenly power over him, and to know it brings her immense pleasure.

She sinks to her knees in the soft, rich earth, and brings him with her. Guides him to the ground and asks if he feels close to God here, with no one around but the two of them in their own little Eden.

I do, he says, but his god is slinging one lean leg over his thighs, bringing herself up onto his lap, hitching her skirts ‘round hips he explores the pale flesh of with greedy palms. His god is kissing him with wine-stained lips, unbuttoning his pants, bringing worship from his lips. His god is no all-merciful, all-loving father in the sky; his god is a sister with sharp teeth and fire in her belly, and she is here on earth, dirt on the soles of her feet, river water on her palms.

Do you love me? she asks as she rides him, and the timing is as unfair as anything she does, always wrapping him ‘round her finger — but he can’t say he’d do it any differently if it were up to him, and he says, Yes, I love you, yes, _yes—_

Would you fight for me? Oh, yes,

Would you _die_  for me? I’d die right now if you wanted me to,

And she rocks her hips just right, and for a split second, he thinks he’s gone to Heaven.

But we will never die, she whispers against his cheek with the ghost of a kiss in its wake. We will live forever, you and I, right here on top of the world.

And gold is a clear, bright, honest color; gold is victory and luxury and success; and she is so very _golden_ in the sunlight with her hands in his hair and her body atop his. And he wants her to be right. He wants nothing more than to remain in Eden with this precious forbidden fruit, sweet, juicy, delectable, all his. And so he kisses her, losing himself in her taste and her touch, and upon pulling back, he agrees: We will live forever.


	2. ain't it warming you, the world going up in flames?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If she knew he thought she was God, she might be inclined to agree. As it stands, she's inclined to think God doesn't exist at all, and Hell doesn't seem like so much of a punishment.

She thinks of Hell a little differently than most folks around here.

If God isn’t real, then Heaven isn’t real; if Heaven isn’t real, it stands to reason that Hell isn’t, either. ‘Course, no one knows God isn’t real — and more importantly, no one knows that _she_ knows that God isn’t real. She has an answer for why she revels in each juicy, ripe sin for those who think her a believer, too. If every little thing is punished with fire and brimstone, she reasons, we’re all headed to Hell anyway. I may as well enjoy the ride, hmm?

Yes, every little sin.

Gossip. Indolence. Disrespecting one’s elders. Lying. Coveting. Wantonness. Pride. Lust. Fornication.

A boy with emerald eyes and sunlight in his hair. A boy with wicked hands and a wicked tongue. A boy she can almost see every time she looks in a mirror. A boy too close for comfort, and all at once, never quite close enough.

He comes to her in the hushed, dark hours of the night, when the air outside is sticky and abuzz with cicada song. Tiptoes over the finely-woven rugs and polished wood floors until he reaches her door, then slips inside, quiet as a mouse, stealthy as a panther. He knows it will be unlocked for him. It always is.

Sometimes, she plays innocent. Draws the covers up to her chest and whispers concern into the shadows — _what if Father catches us?_ And he’ll grin that cocksure grin and stalk to her bedside and plant his heated, sweet mouth on hers, then pull back just far enough to say, _Father won’t catch us._

And he is always right.

Other times, there is no pretense. He’ll find her lounging atop the covers, not a stitch of clothing to cover her pale skin, pink nipples, the soft gold hair between her thighs. Sometimes, she fans herself lazily, insisting it was simply the summer heat driving her to such a state; other times, she drops that pretense too, and lets her long, fair legs fall open as soon as the door clicks shut behind him.

Either way, he ends up in her bed before long, filling up her mind, filling up her body, filling up her heart. When he is inside her, she feels exquisite. When he is inside her, she feels _whole_. If God was real, he would not have split one soul between two bodies. This is the closest they can get to being joined as they should be.

And as the movements of his hips send her into ecstasy, sometimes she thinks about Hell. Thinks about the fires he ignites beneath the surface of her skin and the heat between their bodies as they burrow under the covers afterward, luxuriating in the feeling of each other until dawn breaks and they must part for safety’s sake — thinks that there is nowhere hotter than this, so it must be good practice for her inevitable eternity.

And therein lies another quandary that she doubts any man of God could explain to her. Because her twin will be at her side forever. So, how could Hell be hellish at all?


End file.
